


Cumulative Average

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Gaping, Body Horror, Bondage, Come Inflation, Forced Ejaculation, Graphic Description, Inflatable plugs, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Painful Sex, Possible Character Death, Sexual Abuse, Somnophilia, regeneration chicken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 22:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: He'd begged him by the end of that evening. Begged him to stop, even as his cock filled out and slipped over his stomach with every thrust. He'd cried. The Master, of course, had quietened him with a firm hand over his mouth, and come for the thirteenth time.





	Cumulative Average

**Author's Note:**

> I learnt some things about myself writing this fic that I can never unlearn. You might too. Sorry.
> 
> EDIT: I'm de-anoning this because, quite frankly, I give up. You all know who writes this dreadful Doctor Who idfic in graphic and unpleasant detail. Or, at least, you could probably figure it out. I don't know. Cambridge Analytica and all that. Also, it's frankly hilarious how many hits this gotten how quickly, and all I can say is: dear reader, don't be ashamed, I am pleased to be at your service.
> 
> (This kind of gets played as horror, and it's all a bit DD:DNE. Please see the notes at the end for a full set of warnings.)

After some experimentation, he discovered that he could ejaculate a maximum of seven times per day before compromising the volume. At 20ml per ejaculation, it would take a week on average to fill the Doctor with a litre of his come.

He’d tolerated it, the first couple of days. And by tolerated, the Master meant he’d been exasperated by the third fuck of the day, and positively miserable by the sixth. To start with, at least, the Master had been generously lubing him up because the journey ahead was long, and his epidermis only turned over so quickly. (After a few fucks, he’d been wet enough without it anyway.) It still had to be hurting him. The raw, abraded skin of his hole was enough proof of that, let alone his insufferable moaning.

Of course, the Master hadn’t let him touch himself, and had no interest in doing it for him.

The second day, he’d started to protest. All wide-eyed alarm and, ‘Master, what—no, don’t,’ and going white-knuckled with pain when the Master shoved himself inside. The swollen heat, the slickness–he did take great pleasure in fucking the Doctor for hours, well beyond his limits. But efficiency, too, had merit.

He’d begged him by the end of that evening. Begged him to stop, even as his cock filled out and slipped over his stomach with every thrust. He’d cried. The Master, of course, had quietened him with a firm hand over his mouth, and come for the thirteenth time.

Day three, he found the Doctor still awake and curled on his side, right where he’d left him. His limbs had that peculiar stiffness about them, an attempt to conceal his pain in a way which only served to highlight it. He hadn’t slept. The Master rolled him over and fucked him again.

A cup of tea and a buttered croissant later, and despite the Doctor’s panicked sobs he’d forced his thighs apart and fucked him once more. Slow, long this time. The out-of-sync, shuddering hitches squeezed him deliciously.

‘Please,’ the Doctor said, when he next returned and, without a word, reached for the Doctor’s still-naked body. ‘Please, it’s enough.’

The Master surveyed the pale lines of the Doctor’s stomach, still concave and supple. ‘No,’ he said, ‘It isn’t.’

It was a shame to break this routine. Leaving, briefly, only to return and take him again before he’d even caught his breath. But the Doctor remained soft throughout the next fuck, and so the Master indulged himself in slowly, indulgently undoing the Doctor until the Master had come three times and finally, messy and gaping, the Doctor had gotten half-hard.

Thing was, as soon as the Doctor was bruised and torn enough to gape, he was too bruised and torn to hold his come inside, too. So he’d pushed a suitably large plug inside him. The Doctor had tried so hard not to scream, and then he’d paused and fucked him back and forth with the widest part, and it came out anyway, all strangled through his gritted teeth.

‘Oh, shut up,’ the Master spat. ‘I’m being generous, keeping you loose.’

He snapped a pair of cuffs around the Doctor’s wrists, hooking them through the head of the bed. It was bad enough having to wait without the Doctor’s useless arse and his interfering hands wasting all this hard work.

It was a rather nice way to keep the Doctor. Naked, fucked repeatedly and well, chained to a bed, helpless. The Master had considered restraining him with his legs spread, too, but it was much more fun watching the Doctor try desperately to protect himself.

He could feel it, now. Like fucking a mouth full of spit, like touching water through the skin of a glove. Could see the fullness low in the Doctor’s abdomen, washing back and forth with every thrust.

He fed the Doctor himself. Attended to him. Fucked him like clockwork, as if the more he used him, the more his body grew to need it. Every two or three hours, sometimes all at once, sometimes spread apart. He’d wake up throughout the night with erections. Would have to turn over and work the plug out of him, slowly, so slowly. Incrementally. Half the time he’d even manage to keep the Doctor asleep until he thrust in hard, deep, and the Doctor would wake up howling.

At the end of the week, the Doctor seemed to have gotten used to it. Or, at least reached some acceptance that his ordeal wasn’t about to end anytime soon. His discomfort was growing by the hour, the constant pain, the cramping, the gentle bloat of his stomach. If he ever slept, it was in brief snatches between fucks. Too uncomfortable to lie on his back, his own weight just grinding the plug inside him, he only caught moments of sleep on his side before the edge of the handcuffs made his fingers numb. He’d rubbed his wrists almost as raw as his arse.

The Master liked to watch him struggle like that, recumbent. He’d curl up, seized with some pain or other, try to push the plug out and get whatever relief he could. His muscles were too damaged to do more than flutter. He managed little from those efforts except to fuck himself with it.

He’d screamed himself hoarse. Begged. Cried just seeing the Master enter the room, pleaded for more time, a rest, please use his mouth instead, please please take his mouth his hands, just not this.

It was obvious by the second week. The bulge of his belly, his stomach rounded out. Obvious enough that the Doctor cringed when he saw it, kept abortively trying to bring his hands down to cover it.

‘Do you feel full?’ the Master had asked him, running his fingers over the Doctor’s skin.

‘Yes,’ the Doctor croaked back, ‘_Master._ Please no more.’

Sighing, the Master trailed the hand down between his legs, the now familiar motion of emptying him just to use him, fill him, and plug him up.

Three weeks, now. Three weeks, and the Doctor’s abdomen had swollen enough that he passed for pregnant. The Master had been enjoying that. Briefly dressing him up, parading him around. Oh, those looks, they’d hurt him so much.

(Even that victory turned rancid, the rot of it poisoning his core, when he realised their reactions hurt the Doctor more than the fact that he’d inflicted them.)

He was almost always moaning, mewling with the pain of it. The stretch, the taut skin of his stomach, the endless pain of the Master ripping him open again, again, again once more. Again. The Master quite enjoyed that, the blood. It probably even served to fill him more.

He was ready for bed, the Doctor beside him, leaking tears in silence, too weak for sobs. Too afraid of the pain to sit up, let alone the spasms of crying. The Master had never been one to resist a good temptation. He flattened his fingers over the Doctor’s belly, his skin so tight and thin, the thick fluid sluggishly mixing in his guts underneath. Pressed hard.

Cock hard again from the Doctor’s agonised screams, he’d fucked him one more time.

There was a limit, here, and the Master found himself urgently needing to meet it. This was too slow, too incremental, too easy to lose progress with every moment the Doctor’s still-functioning guts sapped moisture, starches, whittled away at the volume inside of him.

Seized with a moment of reckless, fierce need, the Master attached an air pressure valve and a hand-pump to the adapter which had been waiting at the base of the Doctor’s plug.

Too broken to fully react, the Doctor had simply thrown his head to the side and groaned.

And then the Master had squeezed. Breathless, his hands nearly shaking, he kept going, a hand pressed low on his abdomen, waiting, feeling–and there they were, the ragged, agonised cries tearing from the Doctor’s throat, bigger. Bigger still, until he felt the hardness of rubber meeting his hand, and the Doctor was trying to beg but couldn’t find the breath, the words. Until the Master’s grip strength almost wasn’t enough to squeeze the trigger.

He stopped. The Doctor, wide-eyed, his belly so large he couldn’t even squirm, couldn’t move, so frantic it looked like he might pass out from his own panic. Or his pain.

He choked down on a scream, and with a voice so wrecked he could hardly speak above a whisper, ‘Master, you’re killing me, please, you’ll kill me,’ and then another howl ripped his words from him.

Shuddering through the stomach-tightening surge of his own pleasure, the Master squeezed once more.

Semen dribbled out of the Doctor’s soft cock. The pressure must have been unbearable. Another squeeze, just to see the pathetic drops wrung out.

The Doctor retched, then, and. Oh. He could see it. Thick, bile-stained come, leaking out the corner of his mouth, and perhaps the Doctor was right. Perhaps he would die from this. Perhaps one more clench of his fist around the pump and he’d just burst.

He wrapped his hand around the base of the plug, bulging out with the pressure. Sat, deciding, hand on the trigger, watching the Doctor mouth his desperate frenzy of pleas.

The Master gripped tighter, readied his strength, and pulled.

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: repeated, scheduled rape, serious genital trauma, sleep deprivation, sex-as-torture, public humiliation, vague musings about mpreg, abdominal catastrophe, vomiting up come, forced body horror, prolonged confinement, and uh - bowel perforation?**


End file.
